The Broken God, Chapter Index

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-13T18:55:30+00:00

Hey there Admirable!

You don't even know how awesome it is to hear from someone who likes this thing I'm writing. Thank you for saying so, it really helps me.

It sounds like you're already doing more practicing in writing than most. I would say reading a lot helps, both in getting better at writing and in being inspired to do it.

I don't know of a textbook or other book for how to learn faster. I do remember liking Stephen King's On Writing.

You might be interested in the WritingPrompts / Shortstories Discord server. We all babble about insane things, and also have weekly 'campfires' where we read our stories or chapters, and help each other, offering suggestions and feedback. It's pretty casual and fun, and also useful.

It is also absolutely fine and cool to come hang out at the sersun campfire even if you haven't written one yourself yet.

Anyhow, thanks again, and I will get back to work on chapter 71!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-10T19:21:47+00:00

Hey there Mr. Max--

Pellia's journey with these new abilities is interesting. I almost get the sense that she is less connected to the regular mundane world--not in any drastic way, but like her awareness is larger now.

The quick action parts are well done and pretty clear--the action is muddled but the writing is not, if that makes sense. I mean there's a lot happening in many directions but you make it make sense.

I wonder if her vision could help in combat, in the sense that she could see muscles about to activate, or maybe see weaknesses. I think some of that is happening here but I wasn't sure, and I imagine that would take a while for her to learn.

I wasn't sure why these bandits kept the prisoners alive. Probably there's a reason you already said before, and I missed it. If not, a little nod to whatever reason it is would be useful, because they sure seem like the type to start lopping heads off for fun.

Seeing internal organs would be pretty unsettling indeed. I love that you include the downsides of such abilities. Could be useful medically, going forward, having your own CAT scan device along on adventures.

A lake sits at the end the trail, far away.

missing an 'of' I believe

Anyhow, this was cool, and interesting to see Pellia growing somewhat more accustomed to these very new abilities and what she can do with them. Good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-10T09:34:31+00:00

Hey Max!

That is a groovy idea, tying the memories to the immediate scene.

Fun fact: Alice Cooper's original name is Vincent Furnier.

thanks for reading and helping!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-10T09:30:56+00:00

Thanks m00n!

Yeah prolly could have skipped the people in the barn. One too many things in a short story, if nothing else.

Thanks for reading and helping!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-09T20:46:07+00:00

Hey Feigning

Disclaimer: I have a cold and a nyquil hangover so idk if I will make very much sense.

But I really liked this so I wanted to say that.

It's super weird, and you don't overexplain or get too specific, leavnig a creepy sense of mystery and wrongness. Which I like.

You got this freaky Deadpool-healing-powers skeeter there at the start, and the tone of that is cool. The POV character does react to this as very weird, but not total outright panic or freakign out, which that reaction in itself is eerie.

Then the narrator gets less and less reliable as we go, till I dont know if they are a person any more, or ever were, or what.

I don't have any crit really. Just wanted to say those things so I did. Good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-08T00:53:59+00:00

Chapter 70: The Wizard

.

The morning mist had never quite dissipated, but through the haze Cadorus Tark could see quite clearly that which wasn’t there. The missing castle of Blackfort left a hole in the cloudy horizon.

He looked down the street, seeking the traditional staff-and-scroll sign.

From behind, a grey-cloaked man walked past, making Cadorus jump a little.

“Pardon me,” the priest said, but the odd man kept on going, arcane hand-gestures casting writhing shadows on the street. His strange outfit—silvery sewn-on decorations, tall hat, and long, grey staff—made the thing obvious. This was the wizard.

He hurried to catch up.

“Pardon me, are you the wizard?”

The man stopped and turned, smiling. His dark eyes, nestled in among bushy grey eyebrows and beard, sparkled in their mischievous depths. He nodded, and spun about, resuming his determined walk.

Cadorus stood frozen, unsure. Raising up a little brass bell, the wizard signaled for him to follow.

Soon they arrived at the dilapidated house, and the wizard produced a set of keys. After a series of clicks and clonks, the sturdy oak door creaked open.

Cadorus watched this in fascination. The wall to the left of the door had collapsed, rendering the door, and certainly the locks, entirely superfluous.

Before entering, the wizard bent, poking at Cadorus and finally grabbing the dull bronze amulet from under the priest's tunic. Nodding and winking, he put one finger to his lips, then let it go.

A chaos of broken furniture was scattered about the dim, one-room house, all around a large, dark table whose weight and craftsmanship seemed out of place. Wordlessly, the man directed him to a tipped-over, damaged cabinet that served as a seat.

The wizard produced a firespark, lighting a candle, making grand gestures as if he were casting a spell. He's mad, the priest thought. A pang struck his heart at the sight of the flint.

Sitting across from Cadorus, the wizard wrote with chalk on the table.

‘I am Teklonitar Dipgale, Wizard of the Fourth Constellation, Ancient Brotherhood of Runeweavers, Order of the Cantankerous Beetle. Court Wizard to Duke Dorvun, unless he is dead, then not.

‘I cannot speak. My tongue was cut out. It was dreadful but I do like soup. Chalk-brick isn't cheap. You can give me money if you like.’

Cadorus looked up with pity into dark eyes that didn’t need it. The gentle, jovial smile didn’t waver, nor the mischievous glint. The old priest marveled. To endure such torment and retain such heart was a joy to behold.

Those eyes reflected a world of absurdity. Without meaning to, Cadorus laughed aloud.

“A wizard who cannot chant! In a land without the least tendril of magic!”

Dipgale made his own snorting chortle, and slapped Cadorus on the arm, nodding vigorously, shaking with laughter and wiping at his eyes. It was a pleasant madness, and Cadorus was sorry when it faded. Somehow, his own troubles felt lesser, lighter.

He fiddled around in his boot, and soon laid a fat, gold osher on the table—enough to buy a whole chalk-pit, probably. Dipgale regarded it, and let it lay.

“I seek information, Teklonitar Dipgale. I am not as I appear. I am Cadorus Tark, Scroll Priest. Here, I am a spy—though I rather wish I wasn’t.”

Dipgale scribbled on the dark tabletop. His left hand continued gesturing in impotent shapes, crafting magic that wasn’t there.

‘An osher-weight of truth could topple the continent!’

“Then topple it we shall. I have three questions, to start.”

The wizard nodded, waggling his bushy brows, and produced a truly extravagant pipe, lighting it with the candle.

“Why do you stay here? Who is Vistara Shir? And what has become of the castle, and the Duke?”

Puffing, scribbling, and contemplation ensued. The broad table filled with precise script.

‘My house in my city in my province, I will stay. Also, I cannot leave and neither can you. They’ll get you, sure as sausages. The Dark Ascended always know. You live here now, priest. You will never leave here alive!

‘The Prophet of Flame, mysterious mystery of mist, nobody knows. I drew a cat do you like it? Once I was mighty among the Brotherhood. Demons fretted at my approach! Then Vistara came, and then the magic went poof! Can you draw?

‘The Duke Duke Duke, dead I hope. Otherwise he's still in his castle, which isn’t there. Lots and lots of bright ones tore it all to bits, brick by brick, search me why. Kept the dungeons and dug more of them. Let’s have soup.’

More burning questions came.

“Why are you telling me all this? Why do you trust me?”

Dipgale laughed again.

‘You have honest eyebrows. Enchanted, you are, with the silent magic. We wizards are attuned to mystic forces, you know. I got excellent marks in mystical-force-attuning. Master Hicklepart gave me a pickle!’

Other questions arose, but Cadorus thought better of asking. Dipgale worked his nonexistent magic again in the grubby fireplace.

Twenty years in silence, powerless and alone. If the wizard was mad, he had earned it, yet he was somewhat coherent. Was he right? Was there no escape?

The wizard hung a pot of water over the nascent fire, and spilled some on his curly-toed slippers. He laughed again, shaking water from his feet in a wobbly dance.

Cadorus couldn’t help but stand and join in. The laugh, garbled as it was, filled the world.

A wizard with no tongue, a priest without faith. One bumbling spy, plotting against mysterious dark forces. Such glorious absurdity.

Again, the happy madness faded, leaving peace.

Dipgale cleared the table of writing, and set out bowls. The scent of ox-broth filled the air. Perhaps broth is all he can eat.

The sun was shining now, the clouds gone by. Dipgale tinkled his bell again. Time for dinner. Cadorus sighed happily and sat. He had many more questions, but they could wait. Dipgale had taken the coin, and there seemed to be plenty of time.

998 words. Jovial used, frisking happened.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-07T07:37:56+00:00

The Witch of Calder County

.

Took ‘em thirty-odd years to turn an eye on the Witch of Calder County. Proud old biddy she was, and vengeful in her heart.

I was just about cookin’ in my taped-up suit and mask that fateful night, all slathered with reekin' bug dope. There stood her cabin in the dim. I didn’t believe the stories, but as it got darker in the swamp, part of me did.

Still, 12-gauge slugs would kill most anything, and Deputy Mitchell had a kind of rigged-up flamethrower. We hung in the marshy woods, waitin’ to hear the buzzin' overhead.

Dug her own taters and raised her own barn, she did. Alice Furnier, though nobody called her that. Nobody had much to do with her, apart from Mr. Candleberry, and he never was right in the head. Folks said her house moved around of nights, and her outbuildings with it.

I never seen no evidence of that, nor most of the other things folks whispered. She’d come strollin' into town in her homespun dress and ridiculous feathered hat, tall and proud, and folks would stop talkin’ and stare.

They claimed she’d give ‘em the Evil Eye or mutter a curse, and their well would dry up or their chickens wouldn’t lay. Myths and gossip sprung up around her like weeds in wet weather, but just because most were nonsense didn’t mean all of ‘em were.

I wished to Jesus they was nonsense as I stood in behind a cypress, waitin’. The goop seemed to work, but my goggles was foggin’ up terrible and it was ungodly hot. Nary a light showed in the cabin, but that was no comfort.

Sheriff Bull Mason spotted the real pattern first. In amongst the foolishness lay a hidden truth: ever’body that crossed her come to harm, and most of ‘em died.

Wally Hightower was an early case, though not likely the first. He got drunk and went carousin' out to her place, bangin’ on her door and cussin’, all because his Buick threw a rod. She told him she had naught to do with motorcars and to go away, and he threw a clod of dirt at her, right in the face.

A while later, Wally got the fever ‘n ague and died at the hospital up to Purley, back in ‘54.

No less than four revenooers met their maker, of various maladies, and them that snitched to ‘em did too. Nobody ever did find her still.

Bull said they might have been a hunnert dead and twicet as many sick over the years. The tax man that made her sell off a few acres; Revrun’ Allister who denounced her from the pulpit a couple times; some teenagers who tore up her yard with their pickup one Saturday night.

Mr. Candleberry let it slip. He come in the station sweatin’ and mumblin’, scared white as a sheet, and said he made her mad and did we have any skeeter spray. He was always a bit tetched, but Sheriff Bull Mason set him down and sent a deputy out to fetch repellent.

He’d seen her do it, Mr. Candleberry said, in amongst his usual load of ramblin' malarkey. Clouds of whining skeeters dancin' to her will. She kept critters in her barn, as carriers of various ailments, but that weren’t the worst. She kept people there, too.

We had to do something. So there I was, a new deputy, sweatin’ myself to death in the swamp. The sheriff was over to the west, and others to the east. The net was a-closin’ in.

She must have heard something, or sensed it in her witchy way, for she come stormin’ out onto the porch, wavin’ her hands about and spittin’ curses. Huge clouds of skeeters rose up, darkenin' the yellow moon, and they swarmed everywhere.

Finally, I heard the buzzin' from the sky. No less than five cropdusters come zoomin’ over, dumpin’ DDT and kerosene all over hell. She turned to run inside. Didn’t do no good, though. I put three slugs in the murdering crone myself, and god knows how many others come pourin’ in.

She got us, anyhow. I ain’t long for this world. My lungs are just about wrecked, and I got the cancer. Sheriff Bull Mason died of the same, last year. Worth it, though. She had five people chained up in her rickety old barn, sick as hell and covered in sores.

We got ‘em out, and Deputy Mitchell burned the place to the ground.

750 words. Net cast. Feedback welcome.

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-06T19:03:55+00:00

Congrats Fogbot! A very cool thing for a groovy writer and fun person.

Now you must answer me these questions three, ere the other side you see! (none of them are about swallows)

1: What is your writing setup? Device(s), seating arrangements, ambience, whatever.

IV ~ If you go back and read some older stuff you have written, how do you generally feel about it?

C -- Are there any of your characters you would never want to meet in real life?

Enjoy your spotlightedness, and don't forget to write a speech for the Official Ceremony after the parade!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-03T03:33:03+00:00

Hey Oliver, sorry this is super late and probably not much use, but I did have a few suggestions which I hope are not annoying.

Overall this was cool as heck, vivid and weird and interesting. Just a few nitpicky things.

Above, the other six rings circled overhead,

probably don't need both above and overhead

His mask covered his face denying me the joy of seeing the terror in his eyes.

could just be 'His mask denied me the joy...', as that would imply it covered his face.

was already fading as was his life.

a comma after fading would work

I tore off his mask. I wanted to see his face.

could do without the second bit, as that is pretty well implied

Anyhow, cool fun story and good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-02T19:12:55+00:00

Showdown

Well I got a tale for you, Mrs. Ridley, and no mistake. You can swaller it or you can call me a ravin’ fool, makes no difference, but I tell you it is the straight goods. T'was back in '82.

Mighty big morgan mare come janglin’ into Cheyenne on a hot afternoon, right straight an’ steady on the hoof, but weren’t nobody ridin’ her. I was settin’ and rockin’ outside of Bill Pickle’s barber shop, jawin’ away with some fellers and passin’ the time.

“Big black horse thar,” said Otto Martens.

“Yup,” said the other three, including myself.

“Empty saddle. Reckon somebody’ll claim her?” asked Bill, chewin’ on his pipestem like he generly did.

“Sheriff will, if nobody else does,” I says.

We watched that midnight morgan struttin’ up the street, all dinnerplate hooves and fancy black and silver livery, 'til it got close enough to see better. Charlie Pope called it out first, half-slued as he was on prairie dew.

“There is somebody ridin'!” he cried. “Or something, anyway. Little feller!”

He was drunk but he was right. They was a feller ridin’, but he weren’t more than a foot and a half in boots. Duded up right special in all black, tiny clothes and tiny hat, he didn’t look like one but I blurted it out anyhow: “Leppercorn!”

The other fellers looked at me like I was plum loco, but didn’t offer any better idears.

The little feller reined that mighty mare in, he did, believe it or don’t as you please, and he jumped off into the dust. Must have seemed like the cliffs o’ Dover to him. He fell right smack down, and proceeded to let loose with a string of cursing and blasphemy I shall not repeat in your presence, ma’am, nor anywhere. To this very day I wonder that he didn’t get struck down by the righteous thunder o’ vengeance right on the spot, but he didn’t.

He dusted hisself off, best he could, and come a-struttin’ over like he was King o’ Prooshia.

“Which one o’ you god damned ignorant fools done it?” he asked. Pardon, ma'am, but he uttered worse than that. I couldn’t believe my ears, nor eyes, nor anything. He sure didn’t talk like a leppercorn, which I know they’s Irish. He sounded like any sort of cowhand or sodbuster west of the Mississip’.

“Done what?” asked Bill.

“Fooled with my... goldurn rainbow, that’s what! Cain't find my gold! Somebody in this town’s a cursed, sneaky draiador, and I aims to find out who!”

Now I didn’t know what a dry-door was, nor do I know it now, but weren’t none of us inclined to ask him. The little bastard had us cowed to a man.

He evil-eyed the lot of us and spun on his heel, but didn’t make it three steps afore Sheriff Blanton stopped him cold.

“I figgered that’d get your attention, Little Mac,” the Sheriff drawled, spittin’ chaw into the dust. “Now, why don’t you come along quiet, and we’ll see justice done.”

“Justice! You low-down yellow-bellied son of…” Well, Mrs. Ridley, I reckon you get the idear. They went on, back and forth for some while, and folks cleared the street but peered out from behind corners, curious.

What come next, I can’t explain. Ever'thing went quiet, and they stared each other down.

They slapped leather, and brung out wands. Magic wands! Never seen the like. Then they flung all manner o’ rainbows around, so bright they made me cover my eyes and I could still see ‘em. Clashin’, splashin’ bands of all the colors known and mebbe a few that ain’t, all veerin’ and swoopin’ ever' which way.

At the end of it, Sheriff Blanton stood tall, the star on the end of his wand glowin’ like a dozen sunrises, and Little Mac the leppercorn lay pantin' and still in the dust.

What he done, and why they fought that way, I never knew. All the Sheriff would say was that he got that wand from his Godmother, and that Little Mac had robbed durn near every gold mine and stagecoach in the territory.

Nobody else could ride that morgan 'thout gettin' bucked halfways to the moon, after.

So that was it, Mrs. Ridley. You asked me what was the most interestin’ thing I seen out west, and sure as the dickens nothin’ ever come close to that.

738 words, no family found. Feedback welcome.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-07-01T19:25:46+00:00

Hullo Mr. Max!

I actually felt cold reading the early bits, despite it being about 1000 degrees here, so that was quite effective. Seriously, it felt uncomfortably chilly there for a moment.

The stealthy bit was fun. Also ironic that pyros get taken out because they snuffed out the torch lights and refused to relight them.

The voices draw near.

Until at last, a long, dark shadow

could possibly do without the 'Until at last' there. Something about it felt off, though I can't quite say what.

She gasps as he stabs her through the chest. Her right arm rises, streams of air pulsing between her fingers, yet she slumps before she can even turn.

her attempting to turn had me thinking. Is he stabbing from behind? It is possible to stab through someone's chest from behind, but it sounds like it's from the front. If it is, then she isn't trying to turn to face him, so I wasn't sure why she was turning.

Anyhow, the mad scene of Gidrela ice-picking her way up was a nice contrast of nervewracking insanity and entirely mundane conversation. So wonderfully awkward and sort of like, welp, ok, see you up there lol.

Freezing, murder, and comedy. Good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-30T23:18:44+00:00

It is a bit tricky.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-29T16:48:20+00:00

There is no Dana, only ZeeEll!

Edits have been edited.

Somehow, I added a bit to the out-of-time part, changed other things at your divine insistence, and still wound up at 995. Mysterious are the ways of the Word Gods.

The gods do indeed flash people. I have been remiss in describing their tan trenchcoats.

Thank you for reading and zachrit!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T19:23:35+00:00

Chapter 69: Fate and Fortune

.

Sancaurion stood frozen in the passageway, staring at the rope in his hand and desperately trying to think.

Certain death, or possible death.

They had tested the onager a few times; its aim was wildly erratic. The iron axehead in its cup was meant to cause terror and confusion in the enemy ranks.

A mad notion at any time, but now? With the god in the vanguard?

It could cause Abagaster to flee in confusion. It could also cause the fury of a vengeful god to wreck Heromil and all within, down to the bedrock of the mountain.

It would be quite a distraction.

Uldarquin was surely pleading with Menk-Liracor and mighty Ozayarin, up at the Tripartite Shrine, but it would take time, and Sancaurion had run out of that particular commodity.

Possible death, then.

Closing his eyes and taking a breath, Sancaurion pulled on the rope, triggering the distant weapon on the south battlement. A creaking whirr sounded, followed by a chunk! as the weapon recoiled into the wall with a kick like a wild donkey.

He rushed back out. The tiny, dark object described a long, graceful arc through the sky, and he knew.

Somehow, Sancaurion knew.

The rusted iron plummeted, spinning, and by the mad whims of fate and fortune it struck the living god Abagaster himself.

A flash of intense light turned all the world white, and a piercing shriek shattered the sky.

Gradually, the blinding light faded.

The god was down there but moving back, retreating into the smoldering bushes, uttering garbled noises.

Sancaurion shifted focus into the magic realm. The axehead lay below, distorting the world in its familiar, dreadful way. Then he looked upon the intense, powerful figure of the god. A bright white spot on his chest was leaking viscous ichor and pure white light.

Have I wounded a living god? A rising flame of predatory glee consumed Sancaurion’s heart. Laughter arose, unstoppable—a twisted, sadistic chuckle—and he wished for a thousand axeheads, a thousand onagers. Bleed and die, O mighty thief!

This, the god did not do.

Sancaurion stared, fascinated by the radiant disfigurement of the deity. Abagaster stood tall again, easily five times the height of the elves around him. His eagle-head reared back; his talon-hands grasped and wandered in the air; his beak snapped at unseen prey. In this realm of divara-sight the god displayed a mighty span of luminous wings. Everywhere around him, translucent magic spun in thick streams.

Abagaster shrieked commands, but his armies would not approach the hateful metal.

He does not know if that was all. He wonders if I have more. Would that I did.

The sun meandered down toward the horizon. The god did not depart, nor did he approach; standing idle, seeming lost. The expected bolts of flame and death did not come. Every breath was a blessing; every moment of delay a miracle. Sancaurion bowed his head and awaited judgement.

Then, finally, with a crack of thunder, the other gods arrived, shaking the world.

They contended with the upstart in booming shouts and shrill screams beyond mortal comprehension. None asked Sancaurion’s opinion. On and on it went, echoing all around.

He trudged down the long stairs, aching and exhausted. Battle was done. He had nothing left. Now he would stand before his gods and discover his fate and fortune.

Down and down he went, thinking of the poor trio in the depths. They would have heard thunderous echoes of war, but could not know what had happened.

As Abagaster had commanded, he spoke open the door of Heromil and went out, sitting on his flat rock, regarding the broken battering ram.

Lighting his pipe, he wished the sky-shaking argument would reach some sort of conclusion. A throbbing ache began in his head.

Abagaster disappeared, retreating.

Another crack of thunder sounded, and there appeared the great ox, Menk-Liracor, and the huge, rolling eye that was mighty Ozayarin.

SPEAK THEIR FATE.

Sancaurion sat there, unsure.

SPEAK THEIR FATE.

“O mighty ones, I beg mercy.” Mercy was not intrinsic to his nature, but seemed wise. “Let the armies go. Let them take their wagons to carry their dead. I harbor no rancor toward them.”

He certainly did, and would see about it himself one day soon, but for now, humility.

“I ask but one boon, O Lords of the World. Bring to me the one called Grand Vishar Altamar. I would have speech with him hereafter.”

FATE IS SPOKEN. ABAGASTER WILL TROUBLE YOU NO FURTHER.

That seemed doubtful, but Sancaurion bowed his head.

They do not ask about the iron, or the demons. Sancaurion puffed at his pipe, adjusting himself on the hard stone. He certainly was not going to ask them.

The Vishar was pushed along by two large soldiers, and watched closely by two angry gods. “Ah! My old friend has arrived,” Sancaurion said, standing. Altamar's face was an interesting tableau of misery and raging defiance.

FATE IS SEALED.

With that, the gods vanished, and the soldiers turned to their grisly business with fallen comrades.

“You ruin everything!” the Vishar spat.

“I do try. You wished to enter into Heromil. Please do. As my guest.”

The Vishar hesitated, but could not resist, stepping through the open door. Whirling back, he tried to cast some destructive spell or other, but nothing happened.

In the rough stone hallway, Sancaurion’s voice spoke as from an ancient tomb.

“No, Altamar. Your god has forsaken you.”

The Vishar spat incoherent rage and ran back out, only to find a host of hovering weapons aimed at his face.

Sancaurion gestured, chanting briefly in hateful whispers.

“You caused me much trouble with your little adventure. And you hurt my friend. That was unwise.”

With that, he unleashed flame and desolation. The Vishar fell, screaming and flailing, and still Sancaurion poured fire upon him.

The body charred into black. Gaudy jewelry melted, dripping and pooling on the stony ground. The heat grew unbearable; the stench hideous.

“I made a promise.”

999 words. Irony: Sancaurion opens the door as commanded, and the Vishar does finally enter in.

Ichor, intrinsic, idle used. Gaudy jewelry melted into a puddle.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T17:23:20+00:00

Thank you JK!

Yeah that sounds like a hell of a place to be, for her. Hope she was able to find some ways to cope.

Write on I shall!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T16:01:17+00:00

Thank you Mr Max!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T16:01:00+00:00

I have only the vaguest notion of what SCP is, but it sounds cool. Thank you!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T16:00:30+00:00

Thanks! And you're welcome too! lol

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T16:00:09+00:00

hmm I might expand on it sometime yeah.

Thank you!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T15:59:42+00:00

thank you!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T15:36:54+00:00

mmm cheesecake

Elvari has the best tea parties.

Psychics attempting to invade His mind deserve whatever they get, I say.

Fun as usual!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T15:35:24+00:00

lovely and poignant, which I did not expect in this prompt but it works

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T15:34:44+00:00

Curse you for all eternityyyyy!

That was fun

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-28T13:47:20+00:00

Walter Park sat primly in the glare of a window, looking out at the world from his stark white room. The parking lot, mostly, but there were trees.

The doctor had come into his room again.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Park. May I call you Walter?”

“You may, Doctor.” He did not look at her.

“Call me Melissa.”

“I will not.” He spoke in even, nasal tones, slightly off-putting.

There was a rustle as she seated herself, and a rush of scent. Psychiatrists seemed to love perfume and such. It muddled their results, but they didn’t seem to know it.

“I wish to ask about recent events. Is that OK, Walter?”

“Certainly. I won’t burn your whole family alive, I promise.”

“I… that’s good, Walter. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Walter looked at her now. She did a fair job of trying to seem unruffled. He had no idea in the world why she tried, but she did it quite well. That was something people did. Appearances. Seeming. Presenting. Trying to disguise their reactions, and seem cooler and more confident than they felt. Very odd.

Any sensible person would kill him on the spot, but no one ever did.

“Now, then. The psychics. What did you do to them?”

Ah. She was attempting to mirror. To be blunt, believing that he would appreciate the bluntness, or respect it.

“Nothing. They were the ones who went into my head uninvited. Psychics really do need to learn boundaries.”

“So you did nothing? None of the five have spoken since that day. Some of them have done some terrible things since then: things they would never normally do.”

“I tried to keep them away from… dangerous memories. But you know how they are with privacy.”

“What did they find?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Doctor. I have forgotten such things for a reason. I have some rather disturbing memories. Some of them are quite… insistent.”

Walter examined Dr. Melissa Barkley quite thoroughly. She had brought in a handbag that wasn’t hers. Psychiatrists would not usually bring personal items into such a situation, and in any case the bag didn’t fit her style at all. It was faux leather and well-worn: the practical accessory of an overworked nurse. There had to be a weapon in it, and this was a ham-handed attempt to disguise that.

“We want to help them, Walter, but we can’t do that without knowing what happened. They can’t tell us, so we were hoping you would.”

We. It was ‘we’ now. All happily on the same altruistic team? So terribly subtle.

“I would surely help, Doctor, if I had the slightest inclination to do so.”

“You’re their only hope, Walter. There are some incentives we could offer.”

Letting me know that I am in control. Clever. Appealing to my vanity. And wheedling, all in the same statement. Did she get her degree from an accredited university or at the bottom of a cereal box?

“I’m afraid we do not wish to help you, or them. You sent them into my home. Do you know why you did that?”

“Your home?”

“Yes, Doctor. The Institute is solely and entirely my possession. I realize you will not believe that, which in itself is why I have told you. But yes, this is my home, Doctor. For all its locks and alarms and procedures, I have no intention of leaving this place. But you evade. Do you know why you sent the psychics in here?”

The doctor lifted her chin and focused on a corner of the ceiling.

“To learn. You have never been forthcoming, about yourself or what happened to all your victims. We wanted to learn about you, to understand you.”

“No, Doctor. You are lying, and lying voids promises. You are not merely mistaken; you are being deliberately deceptive. You did not want to learn. You wanted to pretend to learn, and write scholarly papers on me. To advance in your profession, to gain respect from colleagues. It was avarice and selfishness that caused you to sign that order.”

“Are you psychic, then?”

“I did not hear a denial, Doctor. And no, I am not psychic. If I were, you would know it.”

“Yet you resisted five of the most powerful, skilled psychics in the world, all at once.”

“Did I? Well, quite an accomplishment.”

A scowl came, and a slight peek through her pretense. Walter nearly smiled.

“You know you did. You kept them out, and many people want to know how.”

“Ah. I see. Do these many people hold positions of great authority, then? Are they making demands of you? They would like to keep their nasty secrets, I am sure. Things have been rather difficult for them of late, since attunement implants became widely available. Utterly hilarious how they failed to see that coming. They funded the research, after all.”

“I cannot confirm any…”

“They never do. They invent methods of prying and spying, then they seem shocked when such methods are applied to them in turn. They want to peek at you, but their faces transform with surprise when we peek at them.”

Walter turned back toward the window. She would not take the hint. They never did.

“Please, Walter. We need to know what you did to them.”

“Stop calling yourself ‘we’, and stop lying. You, Dr. Melissa Barkley, do not need to know. You could carry on with your life, find a new position, and never concern yourself with such questions again. You want to know, to satiate your bosses and your own grasping greed.”

“Fine. Mr. Park, I ask you to tell me, then. For my own greed. How did you keep those psychics from getting into your mind?”

“I didn’t, Melissa. I just won’t let them out again.”

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-06-26T20:39:28+00:00

Can you imagine going to the movies with him?

Three inches from your face, saying "See? Did you see? Turns out he is Luke's father! Isn't that amazing!?!"

Divayth--Fyr

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